A man in Germany is looking for Elizabeth Frank, a girl he knew way back when, whose smile he remembers as though she is standing right in front of him. He knew her in high school, and remembers her fondly in connection with “cinnamon,” the “Moonlight Sonata,” and “the Oregon Trail.”

I have never been called “cinnamon” (“cynical,” yes, quite often) and I do play a mean and erotic “Moonlight Sonata,” (although not on my current piano, which cannot stand the strain) but alas, I am not the mädchen he seeks.

His internet search for the sweet and beautiful “Beth” of his youth landed in the inbox of the Arizona artist Elizabeth Frank, who sent it to me to see if I was she. I in turn forwarded the query to yet another Elizabeth Frank, who found me because she was handed the wrong prescription at a pharmacy in Manhattan. (We Elizabeth Franks are a tender and helpful bunch). From the date the man provided of his high school life, I must surmise that the Elizabeth Frank he seeks is neither the art critic and Bard professor Elizabeth Frank, nor Elizabeth Frank, the Astoria church organist.

There are more of us out there, then -- perhaps a thousand strong!

Labels: Elizabeth Frank

posted by Elizabeth at 9:11 PM   0 Comments

I was in line at a clothing store on the Upper East Side, often depicted in the film and t.v. world as a place of glamorous consumers, which is why I don’t belong there, and don’t like it. But it was that or the post office, as I was returning some shirts I’d bought online. I had the shirts in a tote bag and carried a handbag.

“I like your bag,” said the saleswoman.

“My nephew made it.” I displayed the tote bag, its crayon drawing of a misshapen tiger (or yellow cat?) on the grass with the sun and clouds above. “He drew the picture and they transferred it.”

The Upper East Side matron in line in front of me flicked an evaluative glance at it, flicked her gaze away.

“I have three of those,” she said.

“Really.” I am ignorant of handbag prestige; I don’t care. I don’t have a Moschino, a Marc Jacobs, a whatever the heck I’m supposed to spend $5,000 on, so I like to say this: “It’s a Robert Frank.”

“Mine is a Daniel Frank.”

Wherefor this mockery?

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“My grandson’s name is Daniel Frank,” said the Upper East Side matron.

I gave her the same eye-sweep she had given my bag.

“Your name isn’t Frank,” I pronounced.

“My daughter’s name is Frank.” She stepped aside to reveal a grown daughter behind her.

“What Frank.”

She told me her first name, and allowed that she had married a Frank.

“I am Elizabeth Frank,” I declared, with such an air of wounded proprietorship that the matron’s reply was slightly soothing, “Frank is a very common name,” she said.

“No, it isn’t.” First my tote bag, now my name! Common!

There are, granted, two other Elizabeth Franks mentioned on this blog alone. Another, a retired church organist, lives in my neighborhood. I sometimes get calls and refuse gigs on her behalf ("Sorry, busy this Sunday.") A few others have emailed me since this blog went up. But I wouldn’t stand for common.

“It wasn’t common when I was growing up,” I allowed. “I was taunted.”

“My husband was taunted,” said the daughter of the Upper East Side matron.

Quietly pleased, I returned my attention to the saleswoman, who pointed to my handbag.

“I meant that bag.”

“Oh, that. I bought it in Madrid.”

Labels: Elizabeth Frank, handbags

posted by Elizabeth at 3:37 PM   0 Comments